


Cerberus-like, with three sets of teeth waiting to bite.

by penaltyboxed



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Artificial Soulmates, Basically an elaborate au where the wings don't suck, Cybernetics, Detroit Red Wings, Gen, M/M, Team Dynamics, Telepathy, The Underdog Narrative, The Yzerplan (Science Fiction Remix), Typical Hockey Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-04-07 20:13:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21494857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penaltyboxed/pseuds/penaltyboxed
Summary: I hope our line can play together for a few years, Anthony had told Dylan, not exactly meeting his eye, sounding painfully casual.You and Tuzzi and me work really well together.It was embarrassing when Dylan immediately looked up at him, skate laces still tangled in his fingers, and blurted out that he wanted the same thing, except for their entire careers.
Relationships: Tyler Bertuzzi & Dylan Larkin & Anthony Mantha, Tyler Bertuzzi/Andreas Athanasiou/Robby Fabbri
Comments: 10
Kudos: 40





	Cerberus-like, with three sets of teeth waiting to bite.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe these freaks are the future of detroit hockey

It was an offer the higher-ups had been considering for a while, Yzerman had told them, before they even brought it up to the three of them. Blashill was looming behind where Steve sat on the couch, which was a valiant effort to make this meeting feel less bizarre and threatening. Dylan still felt like he was getting punished in a principal's office, though, despite it. Having Tyler and Anthony here helped, but not a lot. Tyler’s knee was bouncing anxiously on the other end of the couch, and peripherally he could see the way Anthony’s hands kept flexing in the chair nearby, the most obvious anxious tics neither of them could ever help to hide.

“And it won’t change how we play?” Tyler asked.

“Yes and no.” Yzerman told them.

“But it’s not like… Steroids or Coke, or anything? Not drugs?” Anthony asked, concern etched across his face. 

“Not like drugs, Mo, but the implants will... coordinate your brainwaves, basically, so the three of you would be able to focus and work together as a unit better. I’ve talked to doctors who think the chemistry you three already have together makes the potential of it working really promising.”

Dylan had been the one to initially ask for a more elaborate explanation of the implants, feeling like his brain was working at half the speed of everyone else in the room. It just sounded a little unreal.

“And the league will allow it?” He finally asked. Tyler made a noise. “Like… how is this not cheating?”

Blashill stepped in, “Each team of each conference were given a choice to use the implants to reorganize the way the points and standings are handled. And each team only gets to pick one line who get to undergo it. It’s just up to you three if you’ll agree to it, and the league will decide to keep it as a standard practice after next year's season.” 

Well, that comment only _kind of_ felt like pushing on a fresh bruise, at least.

“So… like guinea pigs?” 

Steve smiled, “Close enough to it, Bert.”

“Um… can we have a while to think it over?” Dylan asked. Yzerman nodded sagely, told them to take as much time as they needed to think it over, reassured them it would only happen if all three of them agreed to it. Mo ended up politely herding Dylan and Tyler out of Steve’s office. 

“Hey, Larkin?” Anthony asked as they made their way through the empty, bright red hallways of the LCA. They were taking the long way down to the locker room, walking around in the empty brick hallways. Dylan felt lightheaded, eyes catching on the banners near the portal signs that displayed each his, Tyler’s, and Anthony’s faces. “You doin’ alright there, dude? You look out of it.”

“This is like, some wacky sci-fi shit, for real.” Tyler said instead, walking slightly further ahead and then turning on his heel to look at Anthony and Dylan as he walked backwards. “Why us three, not like… Double A or Fabbs or Val or something. Like, I get we’re the first line but how cool would it be if the whole team could read each other’s brains? That’d be dope.”

“Dylan?” Anthony tried again, finally Dylan heard him.

“I think I wanna do it? Is that okay?” 

Tyler stopped walking, and the other two followed suit. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Yeah?” Dylan asked back at Tyler, who shrugged and nodded. 

“It’d be a cool strategy. Yzerman probably would love to have his poster child get a psychic connection. What do you think, Mo?” Tyler asked, looking up at him. 

Anthony shoved his hands into his pockets and wrinkled his nose, like he was embarrassed. “I always thought we were meant to be a first line together. I’d be okay if we did it.” 

Dylan was still thinking the whole implant thing over, but somewhere in his chest, it really did feel like the right choice. Mo had shared that kind of sentiment before, most memorably in a locker room after a game with some seriously insane vibes. They lost ultimately, but their line had played excellently together up until the last five seconds of overtime. _I hope our line can play together for a few years_, Anthony had told Dylan, not exactly meeting his eye, sounding painfully casual. _You and Tuzzi and me work really well together._ It was embarrassing when Dylan immediately looked up at him, skate laces still tangled in his fingers, and blurted out that he wanted the same thing, except for their entire careers. Tyler laughed at him from across the room and Val, having overheard everything, had thrown a ball of tape at his head and called Dylan a fool. The thing is though, he really meant it then. He still meant it now. He knew he’d still mean it years from now. 

“I guess we should wait a few days though, probably. It might look weird if we’re like, ‘Great news, Stevie! Made a decision before we even get to the locker rooms.’” Dylan suggested.

Anthony grinned and clapped a big hand on Dylan’s shoulder affectionately. 

“I hope it doesn’t turn us into robo-freaks.” Tyler said idly. “That would suck.”

“Nah, Blash said it wouldn’t. We’ll be okay, I’m sure of it.” Dylan replied.  


* * *

  
_ This feels like a fucking hangover. _ Someone said, and, well. Anthony had to agree.

He wasn’t sure how he was meant to feel after a minor surgery to implant a chip into his brain that lets him have telepathy with his teammates, but he had figured it wasn’t gonna feel great. He just felt…. really fucking groggy, and exhausted like he had just run a marathon while drunk, but also like he got into a fight last night and got the shit kicked out of his head. 

_ This feels like three hangovers, actually, _ He thought, sitting up in the hospital bed while he scrubbed a hand over his face. When his eyes could finally see properly, adjusted to the white, sterile light of his hospital room, he realized no one was in the room except for him and all the beeping machines he was hooked up to. _ But they’re happening all at once. _

_ Oh, fuck. _

_ Dyl? _

_ Mo? _

_ Yeah? _

Anthony sat in bed, kind of stunned. It wasn’t like he was expecting, exactly. If he closed his eyes, it was like the three of them were existing in a vacuum, some nebulous space with only them inside of it. If he really focused, the disembodied thoughts became a little more clear, a little more specific to the lilts of Dylan and Tuzzi’s voices. In an enveloping way, all of their thoughts went through him like a warm breeze, the stream-of-consciousness echo of a radio station that Anthony couldn’t turn off. 

_ Oh… this is kind of bizarre. _

_ Just kind of?_

_ Can you guys just shut the hell up for a second._

_ Tuzzi? _

_ What did I just say? _

Anthony collapsed back against the stiff hospital pillows, and tenderly prodded at the spot at the base of his skull where their implants were placed with his fingertips. There was a small line of raised skin, likely to scar over eventually, and he thought he could feel stitches.

_ Ew, Mo, stop poking at it, you just made mine feel sore. _

_ You felt that? _

_ Yeah, so stop fucking touching it, brah. _

Well, Anthony would try to stop, anyways. Picking at scabs was a habit he could never shake.

_ Mo, Tuzzi, what rooms are you in? I’m gonna steal us something as a snack and come find you guys. _

All of him ached, but… it was changing into a nice ache, somehow. A sore muscle after a really good stretch. Maybe comforting was the word. He wasn’t alone, and despite the migraine behind his eyes, it was nice to have his boys so easy to reach in such an all encompassing way, which, frankly, he wasn’t expecting. 

Maybe he had too many preconceptions about slightly experimental medically-induced telepathy. 

Or maybe not enough. 

If he relaxed, focused on the sensations going through him, he could feel the cold tiled floor beneath Dylan’s feet as he made his way through the halls of the hospital. He felt annoyed in the same way Tyler did when the stiff bed sheets got tangled up around his ankles. It was as if there was some kind of room between them now, some not-quite-real place only they were in. An imaginary sanctuary where everyone’s thoughts and feelings were the only key component, flowing freely through each one of them. Whatever Mo used to hold inside himself, whichever cards he had kept to his own chest, were gone now. 

But honestly, that didn’t feel like such a terrible thing.  


* * *

  
Blashill gave them two days off to recover from the surgery, but heavily implied that their third day with a telepathic connection be spent on the ice. Vaguely demanded. Politely insisted.

It was fine.

It’s just that the whole thing felt like learning how to skate all over again, three times over. Dylan hadn’t tripped on ice this much in a decade, not without getting checked first, anyways. 

They were lined up at the blue line, all six skates parallel, and _ ‘Kay, go, _ began to glide forward in sync, left foot, right foot, left foot, kept the momentum going, until their hands all went swinging out wildly to grab onto a spare arm to keep from falling over.

It was weird, trying to skate at their own normal paces, because suddenly there was a pressure in their brains, some electrical thing trying to link up their muscular systems to move at the exact same motions, except they weren’t running like the perfectly smooth machine Yzerman wanted them to be yet. Mo’s legs were miles longer than Larkin and Tuzzi’s, and taking the sloped corner of the rink behind the net was suddenly impossible. After the fourth fall, they gave up and all had to shakily make their way to the bench to get Dylan his helmet so he didn’t break his face on the ice. 

“This is so fucking embarrassing. How are we professional hockey players?” Tuzzi whined, leaning up against the boards a little desperately.

“We’ve already gotten way better since this morning.” Mo reminded him. Dylan was buckling his helmet into place. 

“And we’re really good at walking and running already. We just have to figure out, like, the muscle to brain to brain to brain connection.”

_ Brain to brain to brain?_

_Well, that’s what it is._

Tuzzi scoffed. “Whatever, when ‘way better’ stops meaning ‘move across the rink in a straight line’, then talk to me. Let’s just go fucking try this again, we gotta get around this rink at least five times or else I’m giving up on you guys and going back to the DMC and demanding they rip my shit out of my neck.”

Mo reached out and grabbed the top of Tuzzi’s head, shaking his skull around and messing up his hair. Dylan could feel the phantom weight of Mo’s hand on his own head too. 

“You’re so melodramatic. Right now all we gotta do is work our asses off so we aren’t embarrassing at practice.”  


* * *

  
Dylan liked starting for the faceoffs, the entire team knows, because he almost always wins. He’s good at it. He’s better at it than shootouts definitely, and maybe better at it than actually getting goals, but whatever. Tyler just thought it’s so damn funny when Dylan drops to the splits in the middle of the ice.

_ Face down, ass up, babe. _ He thought. Mo choked back a laugh, Tyler saw his shoulders trying to keep still. 

_ Can it, Tuzzi. _

_ Yeah, Dilly throwing it back is why our faceoff percentages are always good. _

_ Why are you guys so mean to me? _ Tyler wasn’t looking at Dylan’s face, but could practically see the kicked-puppy look on his face.

Half of the team were in their red practice jerseys, the others in white. They all decided on one more quick game before everyone heads home for the night. It took an agonizing forty-eight hours of intensive hivemind-training, as Tuzzi had taken to calling it, before they were back up to their normal skating levels and could move on the ice without embarrassing themselves too terribly. Today had been... long and weird, and mostly about the three of them trying to play with one mind without accidentally abandoning the rest of the team. Everything was a balancing act, _and a pretty fucking precarious one at that, boys,_ but it was working. 

Everyone else on the team had been eyeing them strangely all day though, waiting with bated breath for something magical to happen, poorly hiding their disappointment when it didn’t. 

Glenny offered to drop the puck and then slide back into position once they start playing, and everyone agreed. Mo gave Tyler a look and Dylan felt the weight of it behind his shoulder, so he got into position. Val was across from him and Luke got ready to drop the puck. And Dylan immediately sunk down, feet wide apart, low to the ice. 

Tyler could feel where Mo’s toe was already chipped into the ice in anticipation of taking off, just like it was his own skate, just like he could feel how Dylan’s center of gravity changed while he buckled down for the faceoff. 

And then the puck was on the ice. 

Dylan immediately backhanded it before Val even realized, and everyone in the rink heard the crack of it meeting Tyler’s stick as he slid away from the cluster of players. Dylan saw Mo take off like a bullet down the sidelines of the rink on his right and pushed off, moving around Val and forward between Helm and Taro. Tyler passed to Dylan, who got it forward half a dozen feet before Tyler, skating behind him let him know, _now, Dyl_. And the puck was passed off to Anthony, and he shot it into the top left of the net, just below the crossbar and over Jimmy’s shoulder. 

Tyler’s breath stopped in his fucking chest, choking up strangely at the same second Mo shot the puck. It was heavier than just a gasp, like the air got knocked out of his chest after getting checked, like he couldn’t inhale, but he was so, so excited it worked. The electric thing between their brains connected the sparks in that hazy space that had been fizzling between them all afternoon, and it felt perfect. It made sense suddenly, like everything had clicked into place finally. 

They had made passes like this before, but never so smoothly, or so quickly. Tyler threw his hands in the air, gap-toothed grin overtaking his face at the same exact moment he saw Dylan do the same from across the ice, just before he was slammed into the boards because Mantha skated directly into him for a hug. 

The rest of the team all picked to a stop, and who’s to say who started shouting first? 

Fabbs had an arm over Tyler’s chest suddenly, laughing excitedly in his ear. “That was so fucking sexy, dude!” 

“Yeah?” Tyler still can’t quite breathe right. “Did it look as great as it felt?” He wheezed out. Andreas arrived then, jumped up on him and Robby, both skates off the ice for a second, like he was trying to wrap his legs around Tyler’s hips.

Tyler felt it when Mo became aware the stuttering lack of air in Tyler’s chest, despite being all the way across the ice, when Dylan start taking deep inhales for all three of them, holding in for a beat, and letting out slowly so Tyler could get his shit together. It was embarrassing, but not enough to outweigh their excitement.

“That couldn’t have been more than six seconds, there’s no damn way, that was so fast.” Andreas laughed in his ear, oblivious to the way Dylan was helping Tyler breathe properly. 

Across the ice, Howard had skated out of the net and was shaking Mantha around affectionately. _ He didn’t even see us coming, Tuzzi. Inhale. _ Dylan thought, light and sparkly and excited. 

It felt good, Tyler realized, all of the excitement compounded threefold in the feedback loop of each other. 

It felt really fucking good, actually. All he has to do is exhale.  


* * *

  
_ SOS, I’m dumb as shit. _ Dylan tries, when he realizes he’s taken three seconds too long to answer the question and still had absolutely nothing to pull out of his brain that made him sound like he did, in fact, spend some time in a nice college. Post-game interviews were so difficult. Well, interviews in general were difficult. He wasn’t the best at stringing words together in a coherent manner on a normal day, and it didn’t get easier when he was drenched in sweat and already thinking about how he nearly shot too wide at three different times that game. He was good at hockey, not at looking smart on camera. 

_ Got you, dude. _

It wasn’t until mid-sentence that Dylan realized the boys had already started answering for him. They all realized early on they could take over each other’s bodies, but agreed not to pull it out of their bag of tricks unless someone asked for help. It got a little dubious pretty quick, as Anthony had cautiously pointed out after the first time he had to sit and watch Tyler in Dylan’s body and Dylan in Tyler’s body try and wrestle each other ‘to make it more even’. 

Anyways, Dylan was pretty sure this was Mo real-time editing Tuzzi’s answers for him during this interview, but it was a little hard to focus on while he was getting puppeteered around. But it was nice, almost as if his hands were off the wheel, but he didn’t need to panic about crashing. Like it was a shift change during a game and as soon as he hiked his legs over the bench, his replacement was already out on the ice, exactly where he had just been.

“--so it’s a big confidence boost for the team, on top of the fact that we’ve won the last few games, and this one. Fabbs has been a huge asset for us lately, it’s been great to have him make a home with us here in Detroit. He’s a real dangerous guy to have on the ice and on our team. We’re all really proud of how he skates.” 

Even as the words came out of his mouth, Dylan was keenly aware that he wasn’t the one speaking.

“How does this win-streak impact the way you play?” He was asked, microphone pushed into his personal space. “Does it change anything for you personally now that the fans are anticipating you taking over the captain position in the next year?”

_ SOS SOS SOS SOS. _

_ Chill out, the people’s future captain, we got it under control. _

Dylan had gotten hypnotized at a friend’s birthday party when he was eight, but it really was nothing like this: the strange out-of-body experience of letting them speak for him, through him, but to still be aware. Shit like this is why Mickey Redmond and started calling them a three-headed beast. Cerberus, reborn as a failing hockey team’s new grind line.

Shit like this is what made it hard to tell where Dylan stopped and where Tyler and Anthony began. 

“We’ve still got our alternates, but I’m really humbled and thankful that the fans want me to take the position. It’s really encouraging to know people expect me to handle the responsibility well.”

_ Less of that, I don’t wanna look arrogant. _

_ You don’t. Just let us handle this, Larks. _

“I don’t think I’m allowed to say a ton about it, but everyone behind the scenes has been working with me to make sure I’ll fill the roll as well as I can. I’m working on a lot of, um,” A charming smile, wide enough to parallel Tyler’s, “grown up, responsible hockey things lately, it’s something I’ve been taking very seriously. The boys have all been really supportive too, the whole team and not just Tyler and Anthony, which is really great. It adds a lot to our team chemistry. And I’m pretty good at taking care of us all, so it makes sense. That’s all.” 

Somehow, he shut the interview down pretty quickly after that, gracefully evading some slightly invasive questions about the implants, about how did Dylan think the telepathy worked so well for the Red Wings as opposed to other teams who had chosen to give it to their teams, but were still struggling? 

Or maybe Anthony did it for him, he was the best of the three at saying ‘no’ without looking rude. 

Either way, Dylan walked away wondering how much of what he said was actually something he really thought of himself, or how much of it was the way Mo and Tuzzi thought of him. He wondered why their genuine appraisal of him made something low in his chest, behind his ribs, feel so warm and strange. He hadn’t realized they thought so nicely of the way he was putting in extra hours on the ice, or that they remembered his late-night calls with Henrik asking for just-in-case advice, or if they cared about how he had been working overtime to prep for a job Yzerman hadn’t even confidently told him was his yet. 

_ Of course we do, Dyl, you fucking dolt._

_ You’re a part of us too, buddy. How could we not know?_  


* * *

  
Shopping wasn’t Tyler’s favorite thing to do, and going to the only Whole Foods in the entire metro-Detroit area was always a bitch because there were never any parking spots and it was always busy every single hour of every single day, but watching Robby and Andreas goof around together was something he liked to do a lot. Also, this was the only place in Midtown with good vegan snack options, according to Andreas. So, honestly? He was content enough just to hold the basket as the two of them piled snacks for the team into it before they made their way back to the LCA, and then to… some secondary location.

Cholowski and Hirose thought a team-hangout, W-celly, bonfire-party would be a hoot before the weather got insufferably cold, and then immediately passed off the responsibility of getting snacks to other people, and also didn’t make a decision about which Grosse Pointe backyard they were supposedly all heading to. 

It was fine. Tyler was just chilling, leaning his chin against the back of Andreas’ shoulder as they meandered through the store, keeping half an eye on Robby while he was distracted by a table with free cheese samples. 

Andreas reached back, tapped the top of Tyler’s head, and stepped away to go down an aisle. 

“I’m gonna go find grab some of those spicy rice crackers, stay around here so I don’t lose ya.” He said. Tyler nodded, turned, saw as Robby reached back into the little tray of cubed cheese and popped another one in his mouth. Tyler laughed.

“It’s really good pepperjack, Tuzzi. Leave me alone.” 

“No shame in the free samples, dude.” He replied sagely. “I respect the grind.” Robby grinned and went after Andreas. Tyler added a block of the pepperjack into the basket for him once he disappeared down an aisle. 

_ Tuzzi, are you guys still getting snacks for everyone? This is urgent._

_ Ya, whassup. _

_ Bernier won’t admit it but he wants those dark chocolate pretzel things again, can you grab them for him? _

_ Oh shit, definitely. Gotta keep the goalie happy by all means necessary, that’s rule number one. _

Robby and Andreas were shoulder to shoulder, looking around the store a little cautiously. Robby elbowed Andreas in the ribs when he spotted Tyler, yards away from where they left him, in the middle of blinking back to reality. 

He was next the bulk-bin wall across the store now, not near the wine where Andreas had left him, and he didn’t really remember how he got there. He shifted his focus out of the implant’s connection and just tried to figure out where Bernier’s chocolates were even shelved at in this damn store instead of worrying about it. 

“Everything okay?” Andreas asked, head tilted sideways.

“Hm?”

“You looked kinda glazed over for a minute there. Like, uh... sleepwalking.” Fabbs elaborated, a hint of worry on his face. 

“Oh, yeah? The boys were only saying Bernier wanted some chocolate and to grab some for him before we dipped.” 

Robby glanced at Andreas for a second, like something was wrong.

“Is something wrong?” Tyler shifted the basket from one hand to the other. Andreas shook his head and bumped a shoulder into Tyler’s, the world’s softest check.

“Nah, we were talking about how weird you get when you mind-read at them in like, normal situations earlier. All three of you do it, actually.” 

Fabbs nodded, “S’like, your bodies are empty for a minute and then you’re normal again.”

Well, that was news to Tyler. 

“Seriously?” 

Robby flicked the side of his head, “Yeah, but you stop being in your own head, so it makes sense, I guess. It’s less noticeable on the ice but still. Just a little weird to see it up close.” 

“Well, thanks, boys. I love to feel normal.” 

“Listen, If I had to astral project into Larkin’s brain, I’d probably start dissociating too. God knows what goes on in that skull of his.” Robby said, which made them all laugh. He grabbed one last sample of the pepperjack as the three of them walked to the check-out aisles.

It wasn’t until after they paid and shuffled back out into the parking lot that Tyler asked, “It’s not, like, too weird though?” 

Andreas looked up. The orange street light above them cast weird shadows across his face. “What do you mean?” 

“Dyl and Mo and I, like, we haven’t changed, have we? Do you guys care that we’re… like, telepathic or whatever?” Tyler closed the trunk door, trying to keep busy. 

Andreas shrugged. “S’not so bad. You’ve gotten better at skating together, but that’s a good thing, Bert. You’re the reason we stopped being last in the league.” 

Tyler nodded at the cement, feeling… weird. He wished he could ask this like he would to Dylan and Anthony instead, and just _get_ how they felt without having to say things out loud. Unfortunately, they weren’t the duo he needed to hear the answer from.

Andreas reached over and laced his hand with Tyler’s, “You worried about it, Tuzzi?”

Tyler still stared down at the ground. “Guess so.”

“Why? It’s cool. I wish our line had it too. I’d love to get some of Val’s zen-master shit in me.” Robby looked over Andreas, who nodded along sympathetically.

“No, you don’t.” Tyler told them. “We didn’t know how to walk at all for like, three days, let alone skate properly.” 

Robby made a face like he was thinking hard about something, then grabbed onto Tyler’s other hand. Tyler stood in the middle, feeling embarrassed and a little pleased they each had a hold on one of his hands, but mostly wishing they were somewhere besides a grocery store parking lot right now.

“Having known you the longest, I don’t think you’ve changed more than anyone else has, and you’ve only gotten better and better. It’s a good thing, so don’t feel bad, ‘kay? We still like your weird ass.” 

Tyler swallowed down the lump in his throat when Mo came through, _ Seriously, it’s getting dire in terms of needing snacks, come home soon. _

_ Since when is the LCA home? _

_ You know what I mean, let’s get it moving, Tuzzi._

Tyler had to blink a few times, but Robby and Andreas were still holding onto his hands each, looking at him with silly, endeared smiles. He couldn’t help the way his cheeks flushed. 

“Everyone is starving, apparently. We should hustle, boys.”  


* * *

  
This was not the first fight Mo has gotten into. It wasn’t even the first fight Mo has gotten into specifically because Dylan ate ice after getting cross-checked, but something about it felt different this time. Something aggressive has been looping between the three of them all night. Tuzzi had been checking the Bruin’s defense left and right, pulling at the end of his leash since the end of the second period. Larkin even got into a real fucking scuffle earlier after he got hooked. And now, Anthony had a knee down on chest of whichever fucking one of the Bruins had just pulled at Dylan’s helmet to keep him away from the puck and ended up trying to fight him. Mantha had tackled him from behind, which let Dylan get away to the bench when gloves were dropped. 

It was kind of surprising a whistle hadn’t blown yet, because it seems like the only thing Mantha’s felt in years has been this white hot anger and an instinctual need to fight for his boys when they get hurt. Anthony would never beat a guy’s face in, he’s not an animal, but a bloody nose and bruised up eye seems like more than fair enough retribution for the phantom pain Mo and Tyler had felt when Dylan’s nose was busted by this guy. 

He isn’t pulled off the other guy so much as Dylan takes over Anthony’s hands and make him cut it the fuck out already while the refs stand around nearby picking their noses, or whatever the hell they’re doing tonight. Tangentially, Mo’s sure the cameras absolutely ate up the way he froze while Dylan mimicked the fists, pulled back and frozen, from where he was on the bench. Media loved the telepathy shit in-action almost as much as they loved a good old-fashioned fight. 

_ Mo, it’s just a bloody nose, stop. I’m fine. _

Anthony got practically pushed into the penalty box, so he tugged the door closed behind him hard enough to make the boards wobble to prove a point. Or something.

_ We felt the break, Larks. Don’t lie. _ Even from the box, Mantha can see where Dylan’s got one of the medics holding his head back, wiping the gushes of blood from his mouth and chin for him. Dylan’s arms finally dropped. The inside of Anthony’s mouth tasted like copper, too.

_ But I said I’m fine. _

_ Oh, son of a bitch. _ Anthony’s leg twitched as Tyler, the only third of them still left on the ice, took off down the rink when he realized his spot in front of the net was open. 

Blashill had been playing line-change bingo with the defense pairs again, which meant Hronek was forced to play offensive defense from the neutral zone while everyone else forgot what their positions were in the first place, and Anthony just had to sit here and fucking behave instead of helping Tyler play cleanup in their own fucking zone. This game was a disaster. 

Tuzzi didn’t quite reach the shot in time to block it, and Howard let in the fifth shot on them this game. No offense to Jimmy, but Mo just really fucking wished they had Bernier in the net tonight. Maybe even Pixie would work at this point, but it's not like they could recall him in the middle of a game.

_ We might be able to bring it back still? _

_ Please be realistic, Dilly. We’re gonna die out here._

The Wings got scored on again, thirty seconds into Boston’s powerplay, making it 6-1, which just felt like some kind of sick joke. Mo let his head drop. He had sweat in his eyes, but he didn’t want to watch this shit anyways. The Wings can barely kill a powerplay on a lucky day, and tonight was not lucky at all.

_ Aren’t we supposed to be fucking better than this?_

They each knew that wasn’t in regards to the team; failures as bad as this immediately fell to Cerberus’ shoulders to bear. It sounded like all several thousand Bruins fans were pounding on the glass as the Wings lost, sneering at them with a fiendish delight. Your little cheater’s surgical trick didn’t work this time, Yzerman. Now what will you do?

But how could it possibly be up to three people who have to split one brain between them to save an entire hockey team’s legacy? Anthony wasn’t sure he knew that answer.  


* * *

  
Everyone had gone home after practice a few hours ago, all feeling a bit miserable after Zadina and Hirose got sent back to Grand Rapids. Something wasn’t working like it should be, but the boys all figured one of them would get recalled back up before the week was over. That said, no one was happy about their latest losing streak. It wasn’t last-in-the-league bad anymore, but it sure as hell wasn’t where anyone wanted the team to be.

It was hard to have fun on the ice all the time, but Dylan didn't have anything to do for the rest of the night, so he stuck around on the rink after practice. He abandoned his stick, grabbed some headphones and tried to fix some of his playlists while he skated in big loops around the barn. He just wanted to move around, because maybe that would solve all of his issues. 

He had felt weird all day, or maybe all three of them had felt weird and were just collectively ignoring it. It wasn’t quite a fever, but it was distracting like being sick was. There was some kind of uncomfortable itch, some inexplicable shiver that would rack through his whole body periodically, that had been making Dylan feel restless since everyone on the team left earlier that night. When Mo had left tonight, Dylan saw the same weird shiver go through him, too.

After his fifth loop of Hey Ya of the night and his sixteenth figure-eight, Anthony chimed in _Larkin, fucking go home. It’s two in the morning. I cannot listen to you listen to Outkast anymore._

_Oh shit, sorry. Is it really?_

_ Fuck off. Yes. _

He pulled his headphones out, locked his phone, and skated over to the hall that connected the ice to the locker room. He still felt weird, but maybe sleeping would fix it. 

What he wasn’t expecting, though, was to hear people still in the showers this late. He stopped just behind the corner, not wanting to intrude and scare anyone suddenly.

“We could have done this at home, you know. We’ve both got apartments with beds, in case you didn’t remember.” That was Andreas, and he was laughing just a little bit. 

“Nah, this was fine. Less conspicuous than making my building’s security see me drag another dude into the elevator to jump his bones.” And that was undoubtedly Tyler, which confused the hell out of Dylan. Andreas just laughed. What the fuck.

When he focused on Tyler’s feelings, they were just bright and warm, maybe a little shinier than normal. Mo’s were blurry and soft, so he was probably asleep again. Dylan couldn’t help it when he finally looked around the corner, feeling nosy like a little kid. What the fuck was going on?

Tyler was sitting on a bench, shirtless, with his hair dripping wet and stuck down the back of his neck, smiling up at Andreas, notably also shirtless and damp, who was standing between Tyler’s knees. It was a little jarring, considering Dylan had watched Tyler chuck his sweaty gloves across the room directly at Andreas’ head that morning for chirping at him. 

One of his hands were resting on Tyler’s shoulder while the other was petting Tyler’s wet hair back out of his face. Distantly, Dylan could feel nails scraping gently over his scalp now that he was watching it happen to Tyler. It sent a shiver down his spine.

“You gonna do something about this soon? It’s getting kinda long, Tuzzi. You need volumizing shampoo or something.” Andreas asked him. Tyler shook his head and smiled, eyes closed, leaning into Andreas’ touch.

“I don’t even do anything to it now, it just does what it does.” Tyler replied. 

“I’m gonna buy you some scrunchies or something, then. That’d be cute. We could switch from our Arby’s sponsorship to CVS.” Andreas tugged lightly on a piece hanging by Tyler’s ear and smiled.

_What in the hell? _

Tyler’s head snapped directly to where Dylan was frozen in the doorway. Andreas jumped back at the quick movement, “Dylan?” 

Dylan wasn’t sure which one of them turned red the fastest, but it was probably, almost definitely him. 

“Um, sorry. I was, uh, still on the ice. Skating. Um, I’ll just--” Dylan stammered, feeling incredibly unbalanced on his skates suddenly.

“Get the fuck out, dude!” Tyler snarled at him, standing up quickly. Andreas’ hand on his shoulder tightened and kept him from lunging. Dylan immediately turned and ran, blades hissing across the ice as he moved across the rink.

_Seriously? Dubs?_

_Dilly, don’t even fucking start with me right now. _

_Since when? _

_Since none of your fucking business is when, and you better be out of the building in the next thirty seconds or I’m going to fillet you like a fish. _

Dylan couldn’t help the laughter bubbling out of him as he made towards the emergency exit on the other end of the rink. It wasn’t until he was outside on the dark sidewalk when he finally settled down and realized he was still in his skates.

_… Hey, Tuzzi?_

_I am so pissed right now, what do you want? _ and Dylan could tell he was, even without the telepathy. He tried really hard to not start laughing again.

_Can you send Andreas out to bring me my shoes? I’m standing outside in my skates. _

_I hate you so much. _

Dylan thought about the merits of standing on cold cement in his socks for a few minutes that dragged on. Cement would fuck up his blades if he kept pacing around. As he was about to lean over and undo his laces, Tyler pushed the doors open. Not Andreas. 

His coat was drawn up high around his shoulders and he couldn’t exactly meet Dylan’s eye, but he held out his sneakers and jacket for him. Dylan took them gratefully. 

“I’ll take your skates back in, if you want.” Tyler said as Dylan changed. A peace offering. Andreas had settled him down before he really did come outside to murder Dylan, apparently. 

_I think you scared AA. _

“Thanks, and sorry. Like, seriously. I really didn’t even know anyone was still here.” Dylan said. 

_Do I need to say anything emo? Please say no. _

“I’d really fucking appreciate it if you didn’t.” Tyler told him, face going red. Dylan smiled.

“I won’t tell anyone, I know that’s what you’re worried about.”

“You won’t spill, it just sucks. I didn’t wanna embarrass him like that. Right now is just very…” Tyler waved a hand through the air awkwardly, fingers wiggling noncommittally. 

Which was strange. 

Dylan had shared enough of Tyler’s brain to know that, more often than not, he was desperately loyal, like an oversized dog, despite all of his bark and bite. He couldn’t really help being like that. A confusing, noncommittal hand gesture was not at all what Dylan would have expected in regards to Tyler Bertuzzi’s love life.

_And... you’re okay with that?_

“… I’m trying to be.” 

Dylan stared hard at Tyler, watched him shove the toe of his shoe into a crack in the sidewalk. He looked kind of miserable, still clearly embarrassed, wet and shivering beneath his coat in the cold Detroit air. Something in their connection tumbled over a few times, like one of their hearts got tossed into a washing machine, a pair of sneakers banging around loudly. When everything went hot and bright, confident suddenly, it surprised Dylan. Even Mo’s end of things had begun to get skewed a little weirdly, but they were waking him up, probably.

“Okay, fuck it,” Tyler looked up to meet Dylan’s eye. “It’s Robby too. That’s why it’s weird.”

Dylan wasn’t sure what his face did, but it wasn’t good. Tyler grimaced.

_We’re still figuring it out. Please just be cool, Dilly. _

“How did I not know about this out until tonight?” Dylan had never felt quite so out of the loop, especially considering they shared a brain. Tyler shrugged, smiled a bit like he meant it, finally. 

“Not my fault everyone thinks I’m sexy and you’re too dumb to realize what goes on around you, bro.” 

Dylan paused, and then let out an abrupt, ugly sounding laugh. Tyler grinned and leapt forward to catch Dylan in an affectionate headlock. Dylan elbowed Tuzzi in the ribs which left him wheezing.

“You three have my blessing, just keep it professional during games, please.” 

“Gee, thanks, C. ‘Cause we were definitely gonna start acting like hormonal dipshits all of a sudden.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dylan saw Andreas, dressed and buttoned up in his dufflecoat now, shuffle out of the building awkwardly. Tuzzi elbowed Dylan in the gut one last time and then rushed over to Andreas’ side. 

And maybe it’s just ‘cause he knows now, but compared to the thousand times Dylan had seen Tyler carefully put a hand on Andreas’ shoulder and smile his big, gap-toothed grin at him, it really did seem more affectionate than before, but hey, who’s to say?  


* * *

  
Being in on the secret changed everything, but also somehow changed absolutely nothing. Dylan held onto a bottle of Gatorade he forgot he was drinking and watched as Tyler bounced the puck off the end of his stick, passing it around with Fabbs and Double A in a little triangle, the rubber equivalent to hacky-sack. They were all laughing, even if Dylan couldn’t hear them from over here. Anthony skated over and leaned up against the boards next to Dylan, reaching out for the Gatorade at the same second Dylan passed it over to him without looking.

“Hey, Mo, did you know they’re like... hooking up? Like, fucking?” Dylan asked, still staring at the three of them. Tyler flipped the puck up too high. It went up in an arc and then fell back down against his helmet. Andreas and Robby both immediately doubled over in peals of laughter. 

“Yeah.” He took a swig of Dylan’s Gatorade. “Honestly, I try not to think about it.” 

“… Okay.” 

“Wait, did you not know?” Anthony asked, looking at Dylan like he was kind of stupid, which was fair, all things considered. 

“Just figured it out.” Dylan replied. Anthony nodded and set the bottle down.

Suddenly, Dylan gasped. His eyes went wide and he turned to look up at Anthony. Their heads turned in at the same second. 

“Do you think they’re in love?” 

Anthony let out an annoyed sigh. He rolled his eyes, tapped the top of Dylan’s helmet with his glove, and skated off to center ice.

Dylan didn’t really get what kind of response that was. Personally, he thought it’d be nice if they were in love. 

Glendening skated past him, chirping something about being a busybody, and Dylan remembered he was supposed to be warming up during pre-game warmups. Oh, yeah.  


* * *

  
Mantha had a habit of reading every single article posted about the Wings after games, which was somehow getting more and more depressing as this season dragged on, even despite the amount of games they were winning. 

Tyler leaned over the linoleum tabletop, clearly going to steal more of Dylan’s fries, but stopped mid-reach when he saw the screen of Anthony’s phone.

“Nah, Mo. Don’t look at that shit while we’re eating.” He frowned, chided Anthony gently. The article was about how Mantha’s stats this season, while still a main contributor to the Wings’ successes, weren’t really a dramatic improvement from last year, that the team was still struggling in areas, does this make the implants irrelevant? Does the league need to call it quits on this experiment if only a few teams are working well with it? Does this keep the NHL as fair as people had planned on? What does this have to do with the future of Hockey as a sport?

“Does it help if it’s not really about us?” Anthony asked, pausing to watch an embedded gif that showed Dylan and Tyler skating around the curved corner of the LCA’s rink, parallel to each other roughly ten feet apart, feet moving in sync, leaning forward to keep balance in the same way. Tyler leaned his chin on Anthony’s shoulder to look.

“That looks like a drift-compatible seventy-one fifty-nine duo there, dude.” Tyler grabbed a handful of fries and plucked Anthony’s phone from his hand. Dylan’s eyebrows went up, curious. Tyler turned the phone off and put it screen-down on the other end of the table. “How’s that not about us?”

_ Wait, my fucking fries! _

Anthony sighed, picked up his fork to stab at some of the fries too. Dylan was pouting across in his seat now, kicked a foot out to hit Mo below the knee under the table. Lower body injury.

“Stop, c’mon. You guys said you’d order your own if you wanted some with your coneys.”

_Be nice and share, Dilly._ Mo turned to Tuzzi, “It was about how much better our implants seem to work compared to other teams.”

Dylan perked up, easily distracted from his potato-adjacent agonies, “Wait, which teams suck more than us?”

“Those freaks in L.A.” Tyler said with a grin.

“No one, it was about how the Flyers are basically the only other team aside from us who went with the implants and have had it actually help them. ” Anthony explained, reached across the table again. Dylan’s fries were not gonna last at this rate. Dylan opened his mouth to say something, but--

“Larks, before you ask, they went with Giroux and Hayes and Konecny.” Tuzzi said as Dylan closed his mouth and contemplated that a little bit. 

“… Not the other guy? The one that Konecny is friends with?”

“You mean Nolan?” 

“Sure… ?”

“Not every GM is lucky enough to have his first line be best buds with each other, Dilly.” Anthony explained.

“Oh.” Dylan’s face went weird. “Well, hey, good for us then, boys!”

Anthony looked out the big windows. Mercury bar was a nice spot; decent Detroit diner food, it was in the cool part of Corktown, and there was only sometimes a chance of getting recognized if they ate there. The storefronts across the street still looked as vaguely perilous as they ever did. The streets were being turned into an elaborate speed-skate track with the amount of rain and cold nights Detroit had been getting lately. Their waitress smiled knowingly when the three of them asked for their normal table in the corner but hadn’t said anything about hockey to them yet, so that was nice at least. Anthony didn’t regret the implants, but something about the way media was spinning it was not sitting right with him, and it was hard to be reserved about your feelings with two other dudes in your head. 

Tyler shoved him, “So what exactly is the matter?”

Dylan nodded, “You’re thinking way too fast, Mo, you’re gonna give me a by-proxy headache.” 

“Do… you guys ever feel odd about it?” Mo asked, turning away from the window.

“Sure, that doesn’t make it bad, though.” Tuzzi said.

“Weird how?” Dylan asked, sitting up straighter, his new Captain’s badge square on his chest all the time now, even when he wasn’t decked out in his jersey.

“Well, isn’t this kinda fucked up? Like, we were good enough before we got ‘em, and now everything is different. Aren’t you guys sick of carrying the blame for the whole team if we fuck up?” 

Dylan frowned, _ That’s not true, Mo. _

“Well, like, isn’t it though? We’re supposed to be this miracle-thing to save the entire team, right? Three headed beast, or whatever the hell?”

Tuzzi sighed through his nose, combed a hand through his hair. _ Can I be a sap for a minute? _

Dylan and Anthony nodded. 

_ I asked Robby and Andreas about this, if they thought it was weird, but they were like, yeah, bro, but it’s a good thing ultimately, ‘cause we’re all doing better now because of it._

His cheeks were flushed just a little bit, but he pushed forward out-loud. “I think we just need to be happy we’re not last in the league anymore and aren’t all like, morbidly depressed whenever we gotta get on the ice.”

Dylan was grinning now, “And like, Mo, the three of us did help save the team, no matter how you spin it. That’s not something to beat yourself up over.”

“But we would have anyways, even if we didn’t have the implants! I just know it. Am I the only one that hates how we’re a commodity now? It’s just hockey.” Anthony knew he was whining, very rapidly nearing the edge of childish pouting, but he wasn’t sure what to do about it. He could feel his nose wrinkle up when he frowned at his plate of half-eaten coney dogs. He didn’t even particularly like hot dogs like this, slathered with chili and onions, but Dylan was convinced they were the greatest Michigan food ever and had a mean craving for one all week. 

“That’s it though, bro. It really is just hockey. We’re good at it, but we’re better at it like this. If we kick ass with the implants but the other teams can’t figure out how to work as one, that’s not on us. Let the media fixate about the stats and shit instead.” Tuzzi said.

Dylan kicked Anthony under the table again, though much more gently this time. “And your big ass shoulders don’t have to carry the whole Detroit sports dynasty either, Mo. The Pistons will suck and we can’t fix that for them either. The Lions have been losing forever. You can just eat your lunch and be the Wing’s best offensive scorer and like, it’s really fine if that’s it.”

Anthony tried to settle down, shrunk down a bit in his seat. They were right, but it was still upsetting. Unsettling. He still would absentmindedly run his fingers over the scar tissue at the back of his neck all the time, despite the months since they had the implants put in. Tyler reached up at tapped his knuckles against the side of Anthony’s temple.

“We’ll be alright, Mo, don’t have a fucking conniption about it. There’s three of us to take care of each other, and we’re doing just fine. Hell, we might even make it to playoffs if we can keep it up. That’s not a bad thing.”

Anthony could help but smile at the thought of winning the cup when he pushed Tyler’s arm away. “You guys don’t have to take care of me.”

Dylan snorted, and pushed the mostly empty plate of fries into the center of their table. Anthony reached out for the last couple fries. “Sure we don’t, buddy.”

The waitress came by again and asked if they needed anything else. Dylan asked for one more plate of fries and the bill when she had time, no rush at all.  


* * *

  
Tyler had been having this recurring nightmare and had been doing his damn hardest not to let anyone find out about it. He wasn’t really sure exactly when he had to go from keeping his personal shit away from two dudes to keeping his personal shit away from _four_ dudes, but he felt like he deserved a prize or something for how well he was not letting any of them know about it for these last few weeks. 

The dream always started out with him in his skates in an empty rink, except all where the ice should be was replaced with a mirror, and his face’s reflection wasn’t his own anymore when he looked down. When he tries to skate forward, the mirror beneath his feet shatters, and he falls through the cracks. His skin gets all kinds of cut up on the shards of glass, and he falls, feet first, into a freezing black void beneath reality, and it’s all dark grey and smoothed over above his head. He’d shout for anyone to help, and only see sunlight get warped through the mirror and the haze of the shadowy place he was trapped in. On the other side of the mirror, red figures were leaving parallel tracks in the surface from their skates, ignoring him happily. Then, he would wake up.

He’d sit up in bed, a hard ninety degree angle from the mattress, gasping and trying to catch his breath in the dark. The telepathic connection would go weird, radio static dialed up too loud, and the sides from Dylan and Anthony would get sharper, like Tyler had probably woken them up as well. He’d wrap his hands around the back of his skull, elbows on his knees and palms over his ears, and tried to calm down enough so that Dylan and Anthony weren’t so in-focus. 

But this time, Robby put a hand between his shoulder blades and it made Tyler flinch. 

“Hey?” He whispered as Tyler remembered where he was, who was on either side of him in bed. “You good? You were screaming.” 

“Yeah, no. Yeah. Weird dream. I’ll just--” Tyler explained quietly, a little frantic to escape, while he peeled Andreas’ arm away from where it was draped over his lap and climbed awkwardly out of the bed. In the kitchen of Andreas’ apartment, he quietly tried to get a glass of water with shaking hands. There was a shuffling from the bedroom, sheets moving across the mattress and the murmur of Robby’s voice. Tyler didn’t actually drink the water, just held the cold glass between his hands.

Andreas shuffled into the kitchen, turning on a light as he went, looking pretty damn bleary with Robby only a step behind him. Tyler didn’t even know what time it was. He kept his head down. His hair fell, a curtain between him and the rest of the world.

“So what’s going on?” Andreas asked, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Nothing. You guys didn’t have to get up.” Tyler tried, sounding a lot more meek than he meant. Robby shook his head and came up next to Tyler, and brushed his hair back behind Tyler’s ear.

“No, something’s up. We agreed to talk about shit, so you’re gonna tell us what’s wrong.” 

“Fabbs, it’s like, the middle of the night?” Tyler tried. Andreas hopped up onto the counter to sit, his heels bumping against the lower cabinet doors, like he was a kid. 

“And you’re deflecting.” 

Tyler sighed and let Robby turn him around so he was facing the two of them instead of the kitchen sink. “It’s hard to explain?”

Andreas shrugged, reached out to tug on one of the long curls hanging by Tyler’s face gently. 

“Just start saying shit then, and we can piece it together for you.” Andreas said, which was somehow just enough to make Tyler get choked up, like he was going to cry, overwhelmed with something between relief and want and feeling loved.

“It’s like, um… do you guys ever get scared?” Tyler asked quietly, feeling his throat get tight.

“Hey, whoa, that face? It’s okay, dude!” Robby said, laughing lightly as he reached out to pull Tyler into a hug against his shoulder. “Don’t cry, Tuzzi. It was just a bad dream.”

Tyler let Robby pull his head against his shoulder, which was a little off because of their height difference, but it worked. Andreas rubbed his hand up and down Tyler’s spine.

“I’m not going to.” Tyler mumbled, voice coming out wet and warbled. 

“You sure about that, bro?” Andreas asked, smile evident in his voice. Tyler nodded against Robby’s neck. 

“It’d be, like, a good cry, though, if I did. Not a sad one.” Tyler told them through his sniffles. When he stood up, there was a damp spot on the collar of Robby’s pyjamas. Andreas reached out, put a palm against Tyler’s cheek. Tyler couldn’t help but lean into it. 

“How about no crying at four-whatever in the morning at all, dude?” 

Tyler nodded. Robby smiled, leaned forward, and dropped a kiss on Tyler’s cheek that was more silly than romantic, but it made Tyler burst into tears nonetheless.  


* * *

  
It was after another win that the Wings scraped together somehow, in the locker room while everyone was celebrating the three headed monster’s latest goal, and it was Fabbri’s idea, but it started like this:

“Does it ever get weird? Like... not having any personal space?” Dennis had asked, curious and a little shy. 

Tyler was the only one who asked back, “What do you mean?” but all three sets of eyes looked up at Dennis in the same second. Nielsen cuffed Dylan on the back of the head.

“You guys are doing that creepy synchronized thing again.” He chided them. 

_ Well? Opinions?_

_ Nah, brah, it’s fine now. _

“We don’t think so, you get used to having them around pretty quickly. Except you can’t get them to shut up, but that doesn’t make it bad.” Anthony offered up, and Dennis nodded sagely even though he really couldn’t get it. 

“It’s only annoying when Dylan has songs stuck in his head and we all have to listen to it, but if I think hard enough to give myself a migraine I can tune it out.” Tyler explained as he tugged a shirt over his head. 

_Hey, 22 is a masterpiece, you’re just tasteless._

_ It really isn’t, Larkin. _

_ Tasteless? Dilly, you like country for real, take the finger out of your ass. _

“Wait, is it like... you really can’t shut each other up ever?” Andreas asked, curious now too. The implants were a bit of a weird topic that the team generally avoided asking about it to be polite. They hadn’t really ever had a Q&A session like this with the boys.

“Not... really?” Dylan said, slowly, processing the question. He changed his grip on his stick because he needed to fidget a little bit, but didn’t catch the way Mantha and Tuzzi moved the same as he did. Dennis elbowed Robby a little. 

“Think like walkie-talkies, but they never turn off, and also they’re on a different astral plane, babe.” Tyler elaborated when Andreas stared at him skeptically.

“Maybe you guys could get out of range of each other, then?” Fabbs suggested. “Like, you all walk in a different direction, see how long it takes until you can’t hear each other. We all could go to the riverwalk tomorrow and try it out.” 

Dylan looked confused. “We don’t like, live together though, and it’s fine.”

Fabbs shrugged and tugged his pads over his head, “But you guys haven’t ever really tried to like, reject it, or turn it off right? Might be interesting to see what happens.”

So on a bitterly cold and sunny morning, they were all standing around in Hart Plaza, regretting their decisions and hoping no one would bother them. At least there wasn’t any snow on the ground, it all melted last week, but Dylan still wished he brought a warmer coat. How people were still out here in the morning sunshine riding bikes with music blaring from blue-tooth speakers and walking their dogs like it was still July was beyond him.

“So… Fabbs? Gameplan here?” Dennis asked, breath puffing out in front of him from where he moved down the steps that went down to the river’s edge. 

“Why me?” 

“Was your idea, brah. Drag us out in the cold and shit as a science experiment.” Tyler complained. 

“Um,” Hands in his pockets, Fabbs looked down the river, then up the other way. The water was bright teal, even despite the cold. Across the water, the Canadian Flag was billowing elegantly. Dylan remembered being a kid and having his dad convince him that there were toxic chemicals from Zug Island in the water that made the city glow in the dark at night and kept the river from freezing over in winter. He still believed it, kind of. He wasn’t really sure if there was still Uranium in the city’s water supply or not from that fiasco in the beginning of December. 

When he looked up, Mo was grinning at him in that exasperated, fond way he only did when he thought the glimpses they got of Dylan’s childhood memories in the city were funny. 

“How about Tyler and I stay here in the plaza, Andreas and Larks can head up to the carousel, and Den and Mo can head towards Ambassador bridge. We’ll just remember how far we all go until you guys stop hearing each other?” 

They all agreed, because one decision was better than no decision. Andreas put his hands on Dylan’s shoulders and steered them up to the riverwalk until they were near the Renaissance Center. 

“Okay, s’too cold and I don’t have gloves, let’s just keep walking.” He finally said when he let Dylan go.

_ How are we doing, boys? _

_ Still cold, still can hear you clowns. Fabbs ditched me to go get us coffees. The water’s pretty though. Windsor is the ugliest place in all of Canada, in case you were wonderin’. _

_ We weren’t, but thank you for that, Tuzzi. _

_ No prob. Detroit should get a ferris wheel, too. Let’s win the cup and make the city get a bright red ferris wheel for us. _

_ Just like the giant tire on ninety-four. _

_ Fuck yeah, man. Just like that. _

Dubs was politely listening to Dylan’s recounted stories of weekend trips to Detroit when he was younger, what it was like to grow up around the city. And at least he seemed interested, and not just bored yet amused like Tyler and Mo usually were. They made it to the carousel, and Dylan pointed along the big brass map of Michigan embedded into the sidewalk to where his important cities were. The team all knew Midtown pretty damn well by now, but it’s not like they really went exploring the rest of the state on their free time. In the midst of explaining the differences between Ann Arbor and Pontiac, Dylan had to stop because something felt… he didn’t know what to say, it just felt off. A little bit more empty, between him and Tuzzi and Mantha. But whatever void was there filled itself back up just as quickly as it was even noticeable. Andreas noticed Dylan being weird.

“All good there, Larkin? Your face just went kinda… ” He made a vague gesture near his own face with his hand.

“I think so? I guess we’re trying to ignore each other but, um, hold on,” Andreas shrugged, gave him the go-ahead.

_ Guys? _

_ Don’t worry about that, sorry. _

_ We okay? Bert, was that you? _

_ Yeah yeah yeah, I’m fine. Tried to ignore you guys on purpose but it went weird. _

Andreas looked like he wasn’t sure if he should be concerned or not. 

“Sorry, it was like, one of them just kind of... stopped being there for a second. I think we can keep walking though. Bert said it wasn’t a big deal.”

“So it was Tyler?” Andreas asked, voice measured carefully, and Dylan nodded. Wondered vaguely if he was worried about him.

They made it up one side of the nature preserve when Dylan felt the connection between the three disappear again, only it didn’t resolve itself this time. Signal lost. Please re-connect your devices and try again later. It was unnerving, to suddenly lose contact with them completely, to realize he was the only one who was in his head anymore. His stomach churned when he realized immediately and without hesitation exactly how much he didn’t like being alone. Bile crept up the back of Dylan’s throat and he lurched hard towards the railing next to the water, cutting through a line of native grasses, hand slapped to his mouth.

“Dylan?” Andreas called after him as he vomited his breakfast into the river, holding onto the cold metal railing desperately. 

“Shit, dude, are you okay?” Andreas cautiously put a hand between Dylan’s shoulder blades while he coughed the last of his guts out. 

“No.” Dylan wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “This sucks.” 

Andreas nodded and turned them around so they could get back to the plaza. His nerves didn’t settle the entire way back, but they certainly picked up when they were to the Renaissance Center again and he still couldn’t feel Tyler or Anthony anywhere. Somewhere past the fountains he gave up on Andreas entirely and began sprinting. Thank God for training camp’s morning runs, at least. 

Tyler was hunched over, head between his knees, sitting down on the cement steps, shaking like something was really wrong with him. For a second, Dylan almost thought he was crying. Mo was down on one knee on the steps, holding onto Tyler’s shoulders, looking just as panicked as Dylan felt. 

He wished he was in his skates and on the rink the second he saw them; there was no way for him to go as fast as he needed to. You can’t pick and push off forward on cement in the way you can on the ice, not unless you’d like a broken nose. 

He hurt his knees when he dropped on the ground and pulled Tyler into a fierce hug. The electric feeling between them didn’t come flooding back until Anthony put a hand around the back of Dylan’s neck. Then, the only thing he could focus on was the frantic swirl of anxiety between the three of them.

When he pulled back, he realized Fabbs and Cholowski were standing above them, completely useless and incredibly concerned. Andreas came jogging after Dylan, confused and a little breathless. 

“He was like, I swear to God, Tyler was fine and then he just lost it and started shaking and couldn’t stand on his own.” Robby said, wide-eyed like he was about to start crying himself. 

Anthony helped Tyler stand up, and immediately Dylan had an arm around his shoulders, worried he might collapse again. 

“We are not fucking trying this again.” Tyler spit out, his words sounding more watery than mean.  


* * *

  
The way Dylan fell had practically looked choreographed: Mantha passed to Bertuzzi between the skates of Dallas’ defense, Bertuzzi to Larkin, who made the shot that finally put the Wings on the board fourteen minutes into the second, and then Dylan crumpled to the ice immediately at the shock of his implant short-circuiting. 

Anthony watched him go down, felt an electric shock claw through his own nervous system, and only barely saw when Tuzzi tripped over his skates and slid headfirst into Dallas’ net, knocking sideways against the boards. A whistle blew, and Anthony barely heard it over the sound of the crowd shouting. Dylan was still flat on the ice, unmoving, and it scared the hell out of Mantha.

By the time Mo got to Dylan and had him gathered up in his arms, he was still unconscious. Anthony threw off one of his gloves and brought a hand up to the side of Dylan’s helmet, steadying his head as it lolled around uselessly on his shoulders. His nose was bleeding and he couldn’t keep his eyes open. 

“Dylan? Dilly? C’mon, Larkin.” He said, trying to keep his voice level. Dylan groaned in response. “You gotta wake up, bud.”

Tyler arrived finally with a wild look in his eyes and all four Refs behind him. Tyler got a grip on Dylan’s jersey, and helped haul Dylan up onto his feet. There was a candy-cane blur of jerseys rushing up around the three of them, a shoulder-to-shoulder wall of concerned white, red, and green. The toes of Dylan’s skates kept catching on the ice, scraping behind Tyler and Anthony as they carried him to the bench, his arms over their shoulders, head dropped down to his chest and bouncing lightly as they moved. Mantha vaguely was aware of the deja-vu of it all, wondered if this was gonna become commonplace for them.

Glendening and Nemeth leapt off the bench, opening up space to lie Dylan down, and then the on-site medics swarmed. 

Tuzzi bumped Mantha’s shoulder. When Anthony looked away from where Dylan was on the bench, he just saw his same silent confusion on Tyler’s face. 

_ What the fuck was that? _ He tried to send out to Tyler before he realized there was only one brain inside his skull again.  


* * *

  
Tyler’s phone notifications all loaded at once, swelling up on the screen as soon as their plane landed on the tarmac and started to roll into their gate. At the top of them all, though, was a single text from Yzerman that was sent while the plane was in the air: 

Mr. Steve Yzerman  
  
Please keep Dylan alive until you three are back in Detroit.  
Gotta have a word with you boys soon.  
  


He sighed and put his phone away, shoving it back into a pocket. Mo turned around in his seat and gave Tyler a pointed look from three rows ahead in the plane. Tyler shook his head, Mo turned back with a frown. The telepathy wasn’t exactly there anymore, not since Dylan’s had gone haywire and zapped his brain half to death; Tyler had been trying to talk to Mo the entire flight, and couldn’t get much of a reaction out of him aside from a few times he saw him reach up and rub at the scar tissue on the back of his neck like it was bothering him. 

Tyler reached an arm out sideways across the aisle and smacked his hand into Dylan’s gut. Tyler secretly hoped that a nap on the plane home would help with the alarming circles under Dylan’s eyes, or maybe deal with the sickly look on his face. It didn’t. Dylan jolted awake.

“Wake up, sleeping beauty, s’time to get home.” Tyler told him.

Dylan stretched in his seat, looked generally terrible, and nodded like he was still sleepy.  


* * *

  
Tyler’s foot was bouncing as he sat on the couch, Anthony’s hands couldn’t stay still, and Dylan had a headache again. It all felt like something they had done before. 

“I want the implants out.” Yzerman had told them. “Two more players blacked out the same way Dylan did, though certainly not as dramatically. No news reporting about specifics, but GMs have been advised to cut the experiment.” 

Dylan crossed his arms in front of his chest, still embarrassed about having his collapse during the game televised and gif’d and photographed and written about a thousand times over since it happened. Tyler snorted, and then apologized when no one else laughed. Steve pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. 

“I will not have all of you three risking what Dylan went though--” 

“It was really mild, apparently.” Dylan interrupted. Steve frowned. "That's what the doctors told me anyways. I was only out for a few seconds. We don't have to get rid of them." 

“I will not have my best offensive players risk electrocuting your central nervous systems for something that the League still thinks is safe when it clearly isn’t.” He spoke with a severe finality on the topic. 

Anthony flexed a fist, nervous, and spoke anyways, “No disrespect, but you’re making it sound like there’s another choice that you aren’t giving us.” 

Yzerman sighed through his nose. 

“Well, is there?” Tyler asked.

“You’ll get your current implants removed as per the league’s recall, but there has been an upgraded version built, apparently. Less likely to glitch and disconnect the way the first implants do. You three are not going to get them.”

Dylan looked up, finally, eyes wide and face sad. “So we’re calling it quits just like that? ‘Cause of one hiccup?”

_ More than one hiccup. _ Tyler thought. No one replied, but Anthony’s eyes cut sideways to Tyler. Dylan shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

Yzerman’s face went hard. “If keeping the implants means there’s a chance of any of you might die just for an advantage to win, then I’m not letting my team go along with it anymore. That’s final. You boys are more important than getting the cup.”  


And sure, Detroit's three headed beast was undoubtedly face of the Red Wing's rebuilt team, but none of them had enough sway to argue with Steve Yzerman about his decisions for the team. 

* * *

  
When Dylan woke up in the DMC again, the room is empty. And, the fresh numb spot behind his skull aside, it is probably the best he’d physically felt since his collapse. No headache, no migraine, no bloody nose, no electric nerves, no strange and impersonal phantom aches. 

Somewhere outside, an ambulance with its sirens on was barreling down the road. The sun was out for once, and from his window, the brickstones of Detroit’s buildings make the city seem warm and inviting despite the drifts of mid-February snow on the sidewalks. He sat up in the bed, rubbed his eyes, and was surprised when the heels of his hands come away a little bit damp. He tried to sniffle, get his shit together, but more tears just kept coming. He just laughed and let it all out for a while.

Tuzzi and Mo have to be nearby, he figured eventually. He was still tired, but maybe there would be more fruit and a bag of chips or something he could grab for the boys again as a snack before they were awake too. He ransacked a tissue box and then ducked out into the hallway. He was barefoot and stepped quietly across the floor tiles. He tried to close his room’s door gently behind him, and headed over to an information desk to ask a nurse which rooms the boys would be in. She pointed down the hall. When he looked past where her pen was pointing he spotted Tyler, busy creeping down the hallway, looking vaguely like a goblin, while he peeked into the glass of every single door he walked by. 

It takes a second longer than Dylan’s gotten used to expecting, but Tyler looked up eventually, and startled just a little bit. Dylan waved, and jogged down the hall to meet him. 

"Your eyes are all red, bro." Tuzzi told him.

"Thanks, I know."

Tyler cleared his throat and tapped a fingernail against the glass-pane in the door they were standing next to, “Um, I think this is Mo’s room. Like, if you wanna come in and bother him awake with me.” 

Dylan smiled. “‘Course I do, dude.”  


* * *

  
They won their first game without the telepathy, which was great and also, frankly, a huge fucking relief. 

Robby had been the star of the game again, getting two goals on two different powerplays with assists from Val and Andreas respectively, and Hronek had even made a beautiful fucking goal right in front of the net at the end of the second. And Christ, Dylan was the one who scored the final point in OT. 

It’s not like he tried to take the result of every game personally on purpose, but if they lost tonight he was probably going to have cried on camera for a lot of different reasons, and it would have been a disaster. He had been afraid the lack of telepathy would fuck up their three game win streak, or something shitty would happen. He wasn’t even sure of what he was specifically afraid of, but Mo checked him into the glass, lovingly, during warm ups and told him to stop freaking out over nothing. They were good at hockey before they were in each other’s brains. They’ll still be good at hockey without being in each other’s brains too. 

But hey, his helmet bounced against the boards when they won because half of team tackled into him, shouting and whooping with delight, and the entire stadium lit up in the familiar sparkly red glow that only existed in Detroit. Hockeytown erupted in applause and made the recorded version of their terrible fucking goal-song hard to hear. When the team stopped tackling Dylan for the celly, Tuzzi and Mo were still skating circles around him, gap toothed grin and undoubtedly as proud as Dylan was. On the screens above their heads was the slow-mo version of his winning goal. He stood up staring at it and realized, Hell, even if he couldn’t feel it between the three of them anymore, he still knew just as well how the entire team felt.

That was good enough.

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes a relationship can be you, your terrible hockey team, your prodigal firstlove returned, your triple-leo second-love, and your grindline teammates who you also happen to have a telepathic connection with & that is VALID.


End file.
